My Father`s Garden
I stand at the start of The Lilac Walk,
the sense of you here so powerful.
I fool myself that I can smell Major
on the evening air, I see you sportsjacketed
and pondering, measuring by eye.
Your managerial hands halfgloves of clay.
You purse your lips, the inner quiz finishes:
We`ll put the fuschia over there,Mick.
Forgive me.I had no inkling.
But, yesterday ,in your garden ,
I finally saw the breadth
of your imagination.
The colour blend more perfect
than that of any old master,
the symmetrical shaping
of different plants a petalled mosaic.
This plain beauty overseen
by the willow who has known
thirty years here. Rooted.
A description unsuitable for both of us.
Circumstances and choices rendered us
as transient as tumbleweed.
Here, far from your resting place ,
is your green memorial.
My loss grows. Unchecked.
Michael Herron ©2010
